Little Retards: The Theory of Chaos is Tested
by The Little Green Imp
Summary: King Aragorn is musing over some parchment one day when he suddenly reaches to the conclusion that building a spa is an excellent idea. His Steward couldn't disagree more.
1. Mickey Beccera and Brilliant Ideas

Author's Note: I do believe I am warning the reader of the sheer spontaneity of this story. I love Lord of the Rings, I _do. _But this just had to happen. Don't send me dead cats in the mail because of it.

And Yet Another Disclaimer…Disclaiming This Book and Story Which I Have So Shamelessly Ripped Off

* * *

Little Retards: The Theory of Chaos is Tested on That One King

* * *

When the world last heard of Mikey Becerra, he was but a wee lad of twelve years old.

However, if you're like any other normal person, you've never heard of Mikey Becerra.

Mikey Becerra is a boy. He's not a man, nor is he a Ranger of Ithilien, nor is he watching you from the place outside your open window.

He shares a rather uncanny resemblance to Samwise Gamgee, if that helps any. Light brown curls like kittens mashed up together, a smile that says, "Love me, I'm innocent," and a laugh that makes you want to kill that lady down the street who always wears fur.

Mikey Becerra is no longer twelve years old. He's a strapping hobbit-endowed boy of seventeen.

Incase you haven't realized, like any other normal person would, Mikey Becerra isn't a part of this story.

But if you can't just get enough of Mikey Becerra, well, I'm sorry. My quota is filled on those things and I've run out of stock.

Anyways, like I was saying. Once upon a time in this place called Gondor, that place, you know, the one with the White City and the men on horsies and stuff? Well if you don't remember, there was this chap named Aragorn who floated down from the sky some Sunday long ago—

Oh no wait…wrong bearded man.

…okay, there was this chap named Aragorn who emerged from the shadows of war to save the great, all-mighty Kingdom of Gondor from this other place called Mordor.

He saved the whole of Middle-Earth and everyone yelled "Huzzah!" and thought that he would make an excellent King because he had fixed this one sword called Namsil or Narzik or something.

So one day, King Aragorn was sitting in the Library of Minas Tirith, working on a paper about the fortifications of the southern border.

He was just sitting there, minding his own business, quill in his hand, thinking silently to himself, watching some particles of dust float lazily in the air, when he was suddenly struck with a rather stupid idea.

He tossed the parchment of paper across the room and stood up.

"Brilliant!" he cried.

His Steward, however, did not agree.

In fact, Faramir, the guy who looked like he had a dead fox asleep on his head and wore a garland of daisies, thought his King had gone rather daft.

"I can give you two reasons why that's a mad idea," he said.

But King Aragorn wasn't obliged to listen to people, especially when they had flowers tucked behind their ears.

The next day, the Library of Minas Tirith was bulldozed to make room for a tanning spa.


	2. The YellowBrick Road Not

Of course, all of this building and remodeling cost money. And money didn't grow on the White Tree of Gondor. So King Aragorn had another brilliant idea of taxing all the people until they couldn't afford socks or those shirts that were sold in Minas Tirith tourist shops.

Even worse than that, he signed a new law stating that any house that stood in way of a possible road leading from Rivendell directly into the spa would be destroyed via Mithrandir's staff.

All of this upset the Gondorians. They couldn't believe that an elected official would treat them so unjustly.

"Why?" sobbed the villager.

"Maybe it's because we only voted him in for that sword he carried about, Namsil," replied villager #2, gazing at the wrecked remains of his neighbor's home. In the distance, a team of dwarves delved into the ground with power drills.

The villager sniffed. "But it was such a pretty sword."

"Yeah, I know," the disgruntled second villager kicked a rock into the debris. "But now that I think about it, we should have voted the Dark Lord in. Bad as he was, I don't think he would have destroyed a couple of homes just so some damned lazy elves won't have to walk ten more feet."

"I don't think he cared much for elves," said the villager, who wasn't too much swinging near the brighter side of the lamp.

"No, I don't think so either," said the second villager, who wasn't much better off.

On the other side of Gondor, on the seventh level of the City of Kings, stood an exasperated Steward.

Faramir was tired of listening to his King babble on and on about how sad and dreary most elves were because they were cursed with fair skin. Just because _he _was raised in Rivendell, what made him think he knew a thing about the Eldar?

In fact, Faramir had drawn up a theory that Aragorn was just jealous of his elven brethren, and was using the spa as an excuse to lure them all into one place at one time and wipe them off the face of Middle-Earth.

However, that was giving Aragorn way too much credit.

Therefore the Steward was at a loss. The conundrum at hand was giving him a splitting headache. What to do?

Being the Steward of Gondor was hard. No wonder why Denethor went mad. Always having to put up with courtiers and officials, and the prospect of a returning King that came from a line of silly people.

It took a lot of effort on Faramir's part to calm down. He did some yoga and lit a stick of incense before sitting cross-legged on his balcony and staring off into the distance.

The spa would open tomorrow, and vaguely the Steward wondered what the turnout would be like.


End file.
